On the road with Herman Cain's controversial chief of staff

I was stuck in traffic, on Peachtree Street, cursing Herman Cain. A lane was blocked off, and my path to the former CEO of Godfather's Pizza wasn't any clearer. I'd been trying to track down Cain for weeks. A former Atlanta mayor, Jimmy Carter's grandson, and a member of Cain's church had been no help. I'd tried a passel of connected conservative business people in Georgia, and they'd shrugged, too. No one knew Cain, or had his number, or admitted it if they did. I just wanted to shoot the shit with him over a slice of pepperoni, or a scoop of black walnut—his favorite!—and see how many times he'd say, in that exquisite baritone, nine-nine-nine. I wanted to immerse myself in his aura of certainty. But I'd nearly given up. Screw the ice cream and pizza, I thought. I'm becoming lactose intolerant anyway.

The sky was a bright blue, but the wind had a wintery edge to it. I looked around at my fellow captives caught in traffic. In front of me was a beat-up, red Chevy Blazer. It had two Herman Cain stickers on its rear window ("Is America Ready for Herman Cain?" asked one). No one here in the city where Herman Cain lives had two Herman Cain stickers two weeks ago—or now, for that matter, after his surge in the polls. The odd Blazer had Wisconsin plates.

There was a man at the wheel and his window was down, his elbow resting on its sill. His hand reflexively ashed a cigarette and his face, forgettable yet familiar, flashed across the rearview mirror. He merged into the right lane, without signaling. I pulled ahead, on a hunch, and looked over: there were the cheap glasses, the graying mustache, the sallow skin and burdened jowls. He was looking down, intently, at his smartphone. Then he made a sudden right turn out of traffic; I pulled a dangerous U-turn, cut left, and followed. I had to follow. I knew that mustache.

The man pulled into a parking lot behind a gas station, just off Peachtree; I pulled into an empty driveway across the street, in a neighborhood called Sherwood Forest. Thirty seconds later, he was moving again, back towards Peachtree; so was I. Nearing the gridlock, we both stopped. I put my car in park, in the middle of the street, and got out. The man appeared unconcerned, even slightly amused, as I approached his Blazer in gym shorts. He lit another cigarette as I spoke:

"Are you Mark Block, Herman Cain's chief of staff? The guy from the smoking ad?"

I'd watched the ad a few days before—forwarding it to friends, noting Cain's creepy, slowly evolving smile at the end, after Block's thrilling jump cut exhale—and saw Block defend it on CNN the previous night. "We've run a campaign like nobody's ever seen," Block says in the ad, now viewed 1.5 million times on YouTube. "But then, America's never seen a candidate like Herman Cain." I agreed then, as now.

The man took a long drag from his Marlboro Light. "Yes I am. Did you like it, the ad?"

"Yeah," I said. "It's catchy. Look, I know this is weird, to approach you in traffic, but I'm a journalist and I'd like to interview you and, if possible, Mr. Cain."

He took another drag, as we exchanged business cards. "Sure. That can be arranged." He seemed sincere, without pretension or obvious guile. He read my card. Then he looked back at his phone, and said, without apparent concern: "I'm lost."

We talked for a few minutes before cars finally moved, me standing beside his car where he sat and smoked. He was late to a Cain event, working on four hours of sleep. He spends one day a week at campaign headquarters in Stockbridge, Georgia, and travels the rest. Wisconsin is his home, where his family lives, where he was elected to the Winnebago County Board of Supervisors when he was a clean-lunged eighteen-year-old with long hair—"but not a hippie"—hoping to "make a difference." His hair was short, graying and formless by 2005, when he returned to practicing politics after a three-year ban in Wisconsin, for election improprieties. It remained that way in the Blazer, in traffic, days before the breaking of the sexual harassment allegations against Herman Cain, and the seemingly haphazard explanations, from Cain and Block, that still follow.

The chief of one of the strangest campaigns in presidential history finally had to go. Traffic was moving. He put the Blazer in gear and told me to be in touch. I drove home, in my gym shorts, with his card in my hand. He continued down Peachtree, wearing that mustache, trying to find his way. He hadn't asked for help.

He shouted my name into the phone, over the din of a crowd, like we were old friends. He was backstage at the 'Defending the American Dream Summit,' put on by Americans for Prosperity. He was waiting for "the boss" to deliver a rousing twenty-minute speech that would celebrate free markets and limited government. It would "kick ass," he said. "Hear that sound? They can't wait."

Mark Block had dealt with a lot in the intervening week, including allegations that Cain sexually harassed at least four women some years ago; the home court clapping was a relief. Block was very upbeat, in a buzzed sort of way. He said he hadn't and wouldn't read the New York Times story, "For a Close Aide to Herman Cain, Scrutiny Comes on Two Fronts," which came out that morning and was mostly about him. I mentioned that the article claimed, among other things, that he has no sense of humor. "My goodness," he said. "They must not have watched the smoking video. I laugh at all kinds of things. I'm a slapstick guy."

"The campaign's spirit," Block continued, "is incredibly high." According to Block, Cain had just had his best fundraising days ever, raising $1.6 million following the allegations. The Rasmussen poll and the Washington Post/ABC poll showed Cain right with Mitt Romney nationally, and ahead in a few key states. "We're excited about our strategies," said Block. "We're kicking ass." (Reached a few days later, after more women had come out against Cain, Block repeated this sentiment: "The media cesspool just doesn't get it. We're still kicking ass.")

I asked him if he wanted to be the next Karl Rove, as the Times story suggested—even after Rove criticized his response to the harassment allegations. "Karl Rove spoke out months ago," Block said, "saying that Herman Cain shouldn't even be running for president. Probably a good thing that we didn't listen to him back then, either."

Still, one of Block's favorite expressions sounds rather Rovian: "Those that need to know, know." Maybe Mark Block wasn't really lost in traffic on that cold afternoon in Atlanta. Maybe he was there for a reason. Maybe it was refuge. Or maybe it was part of his "nontraditional strategy" in some other unknowable way. Herman Cain doesn't have the Republican nomination yet, but, these days, anything—from coronation to resignation—seems possible. Just look around in traffic. If you believe Mark Block, the man in the Chevy Blazer, I'm sitting down with Herman Cain next week.